I’m not sure who I am right now.

I’m not the girl I was a month ago, or even a week ago.

I’m another girl, one who’s only visiting. I wish it were possible for her to stay, but I don’t see how she could.

I wake happy and float into the office. The minute I can escape, I’m heading to Brendan’s, my clothes shed within seconds of climbing his stairs. We do not discuss what we’re doing and all the ways it’s wrong. We don’t talk about the future. We are, like he said, in the bubble. It is temporary, a mistake that was made and one we will somehow need to correct, but until that bubble pops, I’ve decided to enjoy it as if these are my very last days on Earth.

The only thing it doesn’t make better is my illustrious boss, Timothy.

“I came by your desk yesterday afternoon,” he says, leaning into my cubicle on Wednesday, staring me down the way a parent might a misbehaving child.

“Oh?”

“And you weren’t here,” he adds.

I don’t know what his problem is, but I’m done jumping when he says jump for a shitty salary and no chance of promotion.

“Yes, I kind of figured that part out.”

“Is there a reason you’re suddenly leaving early?”

“I’m not leaving early, Timothy. Our hours here are 8 to 4:30.”

“That’s the minimum requirement, Erin. And as one of the senior employees here, I thought you understood that more was expected of you.”

Senior in what way? I long to ask. I don’t have a better office or better pay or better leave. If the only benefit to being a senior employee is longer hours and higher expectations, I have a few suggestions for what he can do with the honor.

“Anyway,” he continues, “the chancellor wants to see mock-ups of the entire branding campaign tomorrow at three, including the new stuff he asked for.”

I very nearly laugh. But then, this is Timothy, who’s never made a joke in his life and therefore must be serious. What he’s asking is impossible. He wants copy for a 10-page promotional brochure, a four-page magazine article, and four recruitment pieces—and then he wants a designer to have them all laid out—within 24 hours.

“That’s impossible. We don’t even have copy yet.”

“I didn’t come here for a status report, Erin. I came here to tell you my expectations. And all of those items had better be on my desk by 2:30.”

I watch his retreating back, and I imagine quitting. I imagine showing up tomorrow at 2:30, empty-handed aside from my resignation letter, and saying, “Here’s your campaign, asshole.” It’s the kind of thing that works for other people—I guarantee Harper could do it and somehow wind up floating out of here on wings of glory, moving a week later into a far better job.

But I’m not Harper. My arc has never gone the way of a Lifetime movie with its inevitable triumph. Which means I will not be seeing Brendan as planned, nor experiencing everything else he detailed in the filthy text he sent this morning. That fact alone makes me hate this job more fervently than anything else that’s happened here over the past four years.

I call Brendan and explain that I can’t come over because I will instead be crafting 20 pages of starry-eyed prose about the glories of ECU.

“You sure about that?” he asks. “I’m making fajitas.”

I groan in dismay. “Oh my God. You know that’s my favorite. But I doubt I’ll even have time to eat.”

“Just come over,” he says, sighing. “Bring your laptop. You can work while I cook.”

I wonder if he has any idea that he sounds like a boyfriend right now. A good boyfriend. I don’t point it out. He’d find the revelation horrifying.

“We can’t be having sex the whole time,” I warn.

“Erin,” he says, sounding exasperated, “I’m capable of controlling myself when I have to.”

I snort. “I guess I haven’t witnessed that yet.”

“What do you think I was doing,” he counters, “for the two months before I slept with you?”

* * *

I arrive at his place expecting him to undress me immediately, but he doesn’t.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, grabbing a plate.

He’s wearing my favorite T-shirt, the one that brings out the gold in his skin and makes his eyes look Photoshopped. I instantly regret the prior claims I made about sex, and us not having it.

“I didn’t really mean we couldn’t have any sex,” I volunteer, and he just laughs.

I walk toward him, and he turns to me sternly, wielding the tongs like a weapon. “Don’t even think about getting laid until you’re done with your work.”

“I think you’re underestimating how long this is going to take,” I reply, a hint of pleading in my voice.

“That’s okay,” he says, returning to the grill. “Just get your work done. We don’t need to have sex.”

I suspect he’s doing it just to torture me, because we don’t need to have sex is not a phrase I ever imagined coming from his mouth. I bet the words burned his throat a little as they came out.

* * *

I should probably leave after dinner, but I don’t want to. We settle in on opposite sides of his couch: me with a laptop, him with a book, legs intertwined. He seems disappointingly unaware of my presence, whereas I am aware of little other than his. Every time he shifts, every time his foot brushes my leg, I grow very aware of the fact that he is there, and that we have not had sex in nearly 18 hours. Just the way he sits with his legs spread wide makes me think of things I should not.

“A quickie might take the edge off,” I venture.

“Get back to work,” he says, without even glancing up.

Minutes later, I’ve only typed about two sentences, and I am hyper-focused on the fact that his foot has just brushed mine. Such a small, simple motion. It could happen with anyone and be meaningless, except that it's not anyone, it's Brendan, who has the filthiest mind and mouth of anyone I've ever been with. So that little brush of his foot has an entire soundtrack of memories accompanying it.

“I’m having a hard time focusing,” I whine. “Maybe we should…”

He cocks a brow. “Not a chance, blondie. You asked for self control. You’re getting self control.”

Great. Trust Brendan to turn it into a personal challenge.

“You want to try it in the hammock?” I suggest. “I promise I won’t get mad if we fall out.”

He laughs but doesn’t even glance at me.

“Remember when you told me that fantasy you had, with me in the red thong? Well, guess which thong I’m wearing?”

Even that doesn’t work.

“I give up,” I say, pulling off my cardigan. He watches me remove it, and I catch the look in his eyes before he glances away. That’s when I realize how to win this battle.

He returns to his book, but seconds later I catch him looking again, surreptitiously, just for a moment.

I am no longer worried about my project. I can get up at 5 AM to finish it. Or maybe Timothy can fucking provide a week’s notice next time. I set the laptop on the couch, still open, and stand. I start taking off my jeans.

"Seriously?" he groans.

"What?" I ask. "I'm not comfortable. They're cutting into my waist."

"Right," he mutters.

I return to the couch and pick up my laptop, laying down so my back is flat, my knees up, feet slightly apart. It makes me think of going to see a gynecologist. But I'm pretty sure it won't make Brendan think of that.

And then I feel his foot skimming the outside of my thong. Skim and retreat. Skim and retreat. I push forward a bit the last time he pulls away, chasing. The next time his foot returns, I release a small huff of air, a slightly desperate noise, and he groans, diving toward me. Before I've even shut my laptop he's pushed the fabric to the side and put his magical tongue to work.

"You like that, tease?" he demands.

Yes. Too much. I’m already close and he just began. After waiting so long, I feel like I’ve earned this. I want it to last, and I know for a fact that it won’t. He adds two fingers and my whole body jolts, my head hanging off the arm of the couch helplessly as I come. I haven't even finished before his pants are down, a condom is on, and he's pushing inside me, knocking the air from my chest.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to stand when I'm done,” he grunts.

And say what you will about Brendan, but he always keeps his promises.